The Elegies of Tibullus Part 8

On with the sport! Night's chariot appears: The stars, her children, follow through the sky: Dark Sleep comes soon, on wings no mortal hears, With strange, dim dreams that know not where they fly.

ELEGY THE SECOND

A BIRTHDAY WISH

Burn incense now! and round our altars fair With cheerful vows or sacred silence stand!

To-day Cerinthus' birth our rites declare, With perfumes from the blest Arabian land.

Let his own Genius to our festal haste, While fresh-blown flowers his heavenly tresses twine And balm-anointed brows; so let him taste Our offered loaf and sweet, unstinted wine!

To thee Cerinthus may his favoring care Grant every wis.h.!.+ O claim some priceless meed!

Ask a fond wife thy life-long bliss to share-- Nay! This the great G.o.ds have long since decreed!

Less than this gift were lords.h.i.+p of wide fields, Where slow-paced yoke and swain compel the corn; Less, all rich gems the womb of India yields, Where the flushed Ocean rims the sh.o.r.es of Morn.

Thy vow is granted! Lo! on pinions bright, The Love-G.o.d comes, a yellow cincture bearing, To bind thee ever to thy dear delight, In nuptial knot, all other knots outwearing.

When wrinkles delve, and o'er the reverend brow Fall silver locks and few, the bond shall be But more endeared; and thou shall bless this vow O'er children's children smiling at thy knee.

ELEGY THE THIRD

MY LADY RUSTICATES

To pleasures of the country-side My lady-love is lightly flown; And now in cities to abide Betrays a heart of stone.

Venus herself henceforth will choose Only in field and farm to walk, And Cupid but the language use Which plough-boy lovers talk.

O what a ploughman I could be!

How deep the furrows I would trace, If while I toiled, I might but see My mistress' smiling face!

A farmer true, I'd guide my team Of barren steers o'er fruitful lands, Nor murmur at the noon-day beam, Or my soft, blistered hands.

Once fair Apollo fed the flocks Of King Admetus, like a swain; Little availed his flowing locks, His lyre was little gain.

No virtuous herb to reach that ill His heavenly arts of healing knew; For love made vain his famous skill, And all his art o'er-threw.

Himself his herds afield he drove, Or where the cooling waters stray; Himself the willow baskets wove, And strained out curds and whey.

Oft would his heavenly shoulders bear A calf adown some pathless place; And oft Diana met him there, And blushed at his disgrace.

O often, if his voice divine Echoed the mountain glens along, Out-burst the loud, audacious kine, And bellowing drowned his song.

His tripods prince and people found All silent to their troubled cry, His locks dishevelled and unbound Woke fond Latona's sigh.

To see his pale, neglected brow, And unkempt tresses, once so fair,-- They cried, "O where is Phoebus now?

"His glorious tresses, where?"

"In place of Delos' golden fane, "Love gives thee but a lowly shed!

"O, where are Delphi and its train?

"The Sibyl, whither fled?"

Happy the days, forever flown, When even immortal G.o.ds could dare Proudly to serve at Venus' throne, Nor blushed her chain to wear!

"Irreverent fables!" I am told.

But lovers true these tales receive: Rather a thousand such they hold, Than loveless G.o.ds believe.

O Ceres, who didst charm away My Nemesis from life in Rome, May barren glebe thy pains repay And scanty harvest come!

A curse upon thy merry trade!

Young Bacchus, giver of the vine!

Thy vine-yards have ensnared a maid Far sweeter than thy wine.

Let herbs and acorns be our meat!

Drink good old water! Better so Than that my fickle beauty's feet To those far hills should go!

Did not our sires on acorns feed, And love-sick rove o'er hill and dale?

Our furrowed fields they did not need, Nor did love's harvest fail.

When pa.s.sion did their hearts employ, And o'er them breathed the blissful hour, Mild Venus freely found them joy In every leafy bower.

No chaperone was there, no door Against a lover's sighs to stand.

Delicious age! May Heaven restore Its customs to our land!

Nay, take me! In my lady's train Some stubborn field I fain would plough Lay on the lash and clamp the chain!

I bear them meekly now.

ELEGY THE FOURTH

ON HIS LADY'S AVARICE

A woman's slave am I, and know it well.

Farewell, my birthright! farewell, liberty!

In wretched slavery and chains I dwell, For love's sad captives never are set free.

Whether I smile or curse, love just the same Brands me and burns. O, cruel woman, spare!

O would I were a rock, to 'scape this flame Far off upon the frosty mountains there!